


Made with Love

by barghest



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Cooking, Cutesy, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Vegetarians & Vegans, i guess ?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 01:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11772966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: Salad isn't all you serve to vegetarians, right?





	Made with Love

**Author's Note:**

> an anon request on cc!  
> "Can i get some cute cute vegatarian stuff?? Or maybe some kid antics??"  
> they didnt specify a fandom or pairing or whatever so i ran w this ;v its not super dense or interesting, just a lil light fluff for the eve.

"Mary, you have to help me."

Only two people call Mary at 3am. One is Damien, who usually had the grace and decorum to text first, since usually all he wants to know is if she would like to join him on a late night sojourn over a particular aged bottle of wine, or if she has some of the fruit flavoured antihistamines that Lucien covets when he's especially sickly. Sometimes he will lose track of time and not realise just how late it is, that drinks at witching hour isn't a good idea for a school night. The other is Robert.

"What is it?," blearily, she flips the bedside light on, phone nestled between her ear and her shoulder as she wiggles her feet out from under the covers. "Something happen?"

"I asked Damien over to mine on a date." Her left foot freezes, toes sticking out into the cold of her bedroom. "And he's vegetarian right? Fuck. Mary." Her gaze falls on the dim glow of the clock beside her, which contains an image of the Lord Jesus Christ, his arms as the clock hands. Currently, Clock-Jesus is T-posing. "Mary, what do I cook."

"It's quarter to three in the morning, Robert," Mary retracts her foot back under the covers, a hasty glance to the window confirming that it is indeed still night time as moonlight streams in through the blinds. Robert carries on regardless, the distant clang of kitchen utensils providing a backing track to his voice.

"What am I gonna make? Can't just make him a salad, that's boring," faintly, she can hear him opening cupboards. "'Sides, wanna impress, y'know. Some greens in a bowl isn't gonna cut it. Fuck." There's the sound of Robert's cooking pot cupboard attacking him, no doubt with that oversized frying pan taking a leap of faith in his direction.

"Robert--"

"Shit, could I do soup? I make a mean chicken and lentil soup," the pot cupboard clangs shut, the offending pan imprisoned once more. "Fuck! That's got meat in it! Lentil soup? What about that potato and leek thing Brian did at the Winter Warmer pot roast--"

"Robert, please--"

“--or what about pumpkin? Everyone loves pumpkin,” Robert’s fridge is wrenched open at the other end, humming ominously as its owner leans inside to look at the (usually empty) vegetable drawer. “What if he’s allergic though. What if I just get us take out? Is that acceptable? Could dish it up like it’s my own--”

“ _ **Robert**_ , go to bed,” Mary finally cuts across him, as Robert rustles through the contents of his fridge. “You said he’s coming for dinner, not breakfast.” The rustling ceases - Robert is pondering her words.

He manages to calm himself when he speaks again, “you’re right. I’m sorry, just…”

“It’s okay,” she softens, pulling the covers up and over her chin. (Did she not turn the radiator on before bed? Or is tonight just especially Arctic.) “Go to bed. I’ll come over tomorrow when the kids are at school, and we’ll work something out. Got it?”

“Got it. Thanks,” there’s the crooked, relieved smile in his voice. Mary closes her eyes.

“Night, Robert.”

“Night, Mary,” he seems almost as if he is going to hang up - but then, “is beer vegetarian?”

\--

“So it is vegetarian, alright.” They meet at the grocery store not long after nine - it’s Mary’s day to take the kids to school and she gratefully accepts the coffee in Robert’s hand when he meets her in the cereal aisle. Together they traverse the rest of the store.

“As far as I’m aware,” Mary shrugs a little as Robert deposits two sixpacks into the shopping cart. “They come from hops and grains like barley, and stuff. Damien is more of a wine man though.”

Robert deflates a little, “I figured, I know. I don’t know shit about wine, though. I’ll just drink whatever’s on offer.” He picks up a bottle of red and turns it over in his hands, scrutinizing the label with an intensity she has only seen him have before when he’s found mysterious tracks in the woods. Mary gently takes the bottle from him.

“We can pair wines later,” back on the shelf it goes. She pats Robert’s arm gently, “Focus on the food first, huh? Did you work out what you want to make?”

Robert shrugs, almost exasperated at himself. He fiddles with the collar of his leather jacket, “I still...don’t know...I don’t wanna just make salad, y’know.”

“There’s more to vegetarian food than salad, Rob,” she elbows him gently and takes over the cart, pushing it out of the booze aisle. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots him snag a bottle of red before following. “The soups were a good option, but maybe you could grill something, some cheeses are good for that, like halloumi. Or we could look at burgers. Or maybe we could make something with tofu?”

“The day you can tell me what tofu is,” Robert digs a hand into his pocket, following her, “is the day I will eat it.”

“It’s bean curd, Robert.”

Robert’s step wavers, “oh.”

\--

They come back to Robert’s with four bags of shopping, three bottles of wine, and an impulse-purchased cookbook, a smiling old lady holding a vegetarian lasagna on the cover. Robert sets the book on his kitchen counter, staring the sweet grandma down. (Mary had tried to veto the purchase, as her Mona Lisa eyes seem to watch from all angles, but Robert was feeling especially stubborn today.)

“Are you sure he likes burgers?,” Robert doesn’t turn around to ask the question, still confronting the old woman on the book, a bag of lentils gripped in his hands. Betsy trots in from the living room, tail wagging furiously as Mary bends to greet her. Her small tongue darts to lick Mary’s fingers and she sneezes with excitement as Mary produces a biscuit for her.

“Everyone likes burgers,” Betsy wiggles into Mary’s hands, big eyes pleading to be picked up and cuddled. Their pull is too strong, and Mary finds herself weak willed in their thrall. She scoops the dog up in her arms, dusting Betsy’s head with kisses. “First, put the lentils on.”

They hover over the pan of lentils, Robert stalking around it as if afraid it may explode at any time. Once they’ve conquered chopping ingredients, Mary shoos him into the living room to tidy, taking over the pan whilst Robert rustles around - she politely looks away when he slopes past, a shameful stack of pizza boxes and take out containers in his hands. She stirs in onions and spices, she stirs in broad beans, she turns the vegetarian cookbook over so Grandma quits staring at her. (She mashes in a few chickpeas for good measure.) Robert pokes his head round the door, spying on the progress with Betsy at his feet.

“Get in here, you’re supposed to be cooking this,” she thrusts the spatula in Robert’s direction, hilt first as if offering a sword. Robert takes it gingerly, inspecting the mixture when he gets close enough.

“You sure this is good?,” he stirs it a little, frowning at the dull orange in the pan.

“Just brown it a little more, and you can pretend like you did all the work,” Mary pats his shoulder gently. “It smells good at least, doesn’t it?”

Robert leans close to the pan and cocks his head, “mhm. Yeah.” He licks a little off the tip of the spatula, “hmm.”

“Let me try,” she steals the spatula back, scooping some of the lentil mixture up for sampling. “Maybe more cumin,” Robert’s spice rack is well stocked, but barely used. Earlier she had taken the plastic seal off the cumin, the shaker of which she now wiggles in his face, “you should start using these things, you know.”

“Can I put it on pizza?” She gives him a look, to which he just raises one brow. Sometimes it’s really hard to tell if Robert is joking. To err on the side of caution, Mary simply changes the subject.

“You never told me how the last date went,” a little pepper is needed too, now she thinks about it. “I’ve heard from Dames, and clearly you must have impressed him if he’s coming over for a second one, hm?”

Ah, there’s that crooked little smile again, that soften of his brows. Robert runs a hand through his hair, looking into the pan as he stirs the ingredients, looking for all the world oblivious for a moment that she is there, “yeah, it was really good. They had a double bill of _Night of the Living Dead_ and _Shaun of the Dead_ showing at the Reel, y'know, good classic stuff, so we headed to that--”

“Did you buy tickets?”

Robert’s gaze snaps to her, only to roll his eyes, “ _yes_ , I bought the tickets.” It’s Mary’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I _promise_.” Alright, she will let him off the hook this time. “But yeah, we went to that, and I don’t think it was too scary,” Robert chuckles, taking the pan off the heat, “but he did grab my hand, I mean, a bit, and then we did actually hold hands, and stuff.” His gaze drops back to the food again, corners of his mouth curling up. He’s shaved today, it occurs to her, a small cut on his chin still fresh. “He liked _Shaun of the Dead_ a lot, he said. Was kinda worried it'd be too gory, or some shit, but he laughed a bunch, so. Maybe gonna get him to watch some other Edgar Wright stuff sometime. Did you know he loves _Crimson Peak_? I love that movie. He dressed like he could’ve walked right out of it.” The hand goes back through his hair, scritching at his neck the way he does when he’s thinking warmly about someone (it’s been a while, but Mary has seen it before). “And you’ll know I took him out for ride afterwards. He’s got a good music taste.”

“Ask him to show you his vinyl collection sometime,” the mixture goes into the fridge, ready to be formed into burgers in an hour. “He has a beautiful gramophone.”

That makes Robert smile more, “y’think if I took some of mine over sometime, he’d like to listen?”

Mary beams. “He’d love it, I'm sure.”

\--

“Liver, with some fava beans and a nice Chianti,” Robert (poorly) attempts the hiss of Anthony Hopkins’ Hannibal as he wiggles a wine bottle - only to realise, and stumble over himself a little in an attempt to rectify the situation, “without the liver, I promise, no liver. Just fava beans, that’s broad beans, and lentils and chickpeas and stuff.” He struggles a little with the cork, “this is a Chianti though.”

Damien just laughs a little and extends a hand to him, “allow me.”

The bottle is passed over and Robert sheepishly takes his place across the table, “sorry about that, just, y’know.” Better to be honest. “Lil nervous. Made these burgers with Mary, so.” Two cooked patties decorate each of their plates, accompanied with vegetables - god, salad had to wiggle its way in somehow, didn’t it - and lightly grilled halloumi. Robert eyes the cheese suspiciously, “you like cheese, right?”

“I love cheese,” Damien pours them both a glass, careful to avoid the candle flames licking the air between them. “You went to a lot of effort tonight, Robert. I appreciate it,” he smiles, gracious, and it melts Robert into his seat a little. Dark hair pushed back over his shoulders to reveal a high collar atop a white shirt, glasses balanced precariously need the end of his nose - he looks heavenly, if Robert is honest. Dark, but ethereal. He wonders if Damien is drawing on Wilde tonight. “You could have had meat yourself, you know.”

“Oh, no,” Robert waves a hand, fork between his fingers, “no, I’m all good. Seriously. I gotta try my own work too, y’know?” He tries to propel the burger onto the open bun on his plate - only for it to almost disintegrate, a chickpea rolling away into the lettuce. Robert stares at his plate, deflating, “shit.”

“Hm?,” Damien looks up, a forkful of burger halfway to his mouth.

“It’s not, it’s not stuck together. Fuck,” Robert gestures to his burger.

Damien pauses for a second, then slowly extends his fork across the table, “have a taste.” Robert obediently opens his mouth to let it inside, unable to look away from the smile on Damien’s lips. “How is that, hm?

“Um,” he has to think for a second, savouring the flavour on his tongue. “I. Pretty good actually.”

That smile gets wider, and Robert feels his heart swell a little, despite the lentil explosion on his plate. Damien retracts his fork, but his free hand crosses the table, fingers linking with Robert’s, “ I would certainly say, send my compliments to the chef.”

\--

Clock-Jesus has raised his hands to the sky, grasping at the number twelve. Mary checks her messages one last time - still nothing, from either of them. Does she take that as a good sign, or call to check in? Her nails tap along the side of her phone.

The phone jumps in her hands, trilling, and Mary answers midway through the second ring, “hello?”

“Mary? It’s Robert,” Betsy’s face lights up her screen. Damien’s coming over for dinner again tomorrow, and he's bringing Lucien. Do you know how to make a Victoria Sponge?”

**Author's Note:**

> i almost called this "a recipe for love" but im not that fucking corny  
> (victoria sponge is a type of cake from the, uh, victorian era)


End file.
